


No One Else to Ask

by umbrafix



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Confessions, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Lord Melbourne is a wonderful listener
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-02 08:59:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umbrafix/pseuds/umbrafix
Summary: In the wake of her suspicions of Lady Flora, Victoria realizes that she doesn't understand exactly what a criminal conversation is, and whether she may have previously taken part in one. There is only one man she trusts enough to talk to.





	1. Questions

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the tags - while there are no descriptions in the fic, and it will merely be mentioned in chapter 2 as a past event, please don't read if you are likely to have problems with it.

The words that Lehzen spoke have been churning in Victoria's gut since the night before. A criminal conversation. The possibility of a child. The potential hypocrisy of Lady Flora - lecturing Victoria on what was right, standing beside the Duchess and Sir Conroy and accusing _her_ of being improper - stings at her.

  
  


How dare she. How _dare_ she!

  
  


Victoria doesn't know what it is that motivates her to pursue the matter, to discover if there is something that can be done. In hindsight, much later, perhaps it is pettiness. A need to punish someone whom she holds responsible for a measure of her own treatment at the hands of her guardians. But it feels like justice, at least at the time. And so she asks advice, inevitably not as subtly as she thinks she does. From Lehzen. From Lord M.

  
  


And then from a doctor.

  
  


The conversation with the doctor is perhaps the most illuminating. He tells her that if there has been a criminal conversation, it would be detectable physiologically after an examination.

  
  


An examination.

  
  


For the first time, it occurs to Victoria to wonder exactly what a criminal conversation is. The words have always been divorced from anything she has knowledge of - only muttered at the edge of her hearing before. Since she was perhaps twelve, her mother has only left her with the strongest impression that she shouldn't be alone with a man, in case one should happen, and that it would _ruin_ her.

  
  


She feels a chill of fear, and dismisses the doctor without further orders.

  
  


All the way through her coronation, holding her head high and trying to feel like a queen, a faint queasiness persists. An uncertainty, a doubt.

  
  


Lord M nods at her slightly, and she sees approval in his eyes. Only that enables her to make it through the ceremony, only that brings a spark of warmth to her.

  
  


Perhaps a week later, they have finished their morning's business and she asks Lord M to walk with her around the palace. He, a slight smile on his face, obliges her wish.

  
  


Her stomach is stewing; it has been all week. She has tossed and turned and run possible conversations through her head and been utterly distracted. Lord M has noticed, she is sure, and she thinks she has detected a concerned glance or two, but she cannot let go of this. It will not let her rest.

  
  


"Will you sit with me?" she asks as they reach the piano room, and her voice sounds loud in the silence. She takes one end of the piano bench; it is wide enough for two.

  
  


"Of course, ma'am."

  
  


He sits gracefully beside her - always so graceful - and joins her in gazing at the wall opposite them. He doesn't say anything, doesn't break the moment.

  
  


"Lord M," she says, and tries to even out the fear she can hear in her own voice.

  
  


"Yes, ma'am?"

  
  


"I wished to speak with you about something."

  
  


He waits a moment. "Yes, ma'am?"

  
  


"I-" Her hands lace together, twisting slightly. “We are friends, aren't we, Lord M?”

  
  


There is a pause as he studies her. “I like to think so, ma'am.”

  
  


“There is no one else for me to ask, you see. And I like to think that you would be honest with me.” She darts a glance at him, and his eyes are kind, so very kind. “I would like you to be entirely frank with me. About what I have to ask.”

  
  


He tilts his head a little. “I'll do what I can, ma'am.”

  
  


A breath. Another. “I spoke to you previously about Lady Flora,” she begins haltingly. “About...”

  
  


“Yes, I remember. I was glad that you didn't take it any further, ma'am.”

  
  


She hesitates, because she _almost_ had, she almost... “I told you she was suspected of having a criminal conversation.” He is silent, and she gathers all her courage. “What exactly _is_ a criminal conversation, Lord M?”

  
  


Even without looking at him, which she can't - _she can't -_ she senses his unease. There is a shifting on the bench beside her, and he clears his throat.

  
  


“It is when two people, a man and a woman, have intimate relations outside of marriage, ma'am.”

  
  


Her mind is racing furiously. “So not, in fact a conversation,” she murmurs, almost to herself. There is a slight bark of laughter to the side of her.

  
  


“No, ma'am.”

  
  


“I-” She swallows, her mouth dry, _parched_. “And what exactly are intimate relations?”

  
  


“Ma'am-”

  
  


“What are they?”

  
  


Stillness, for a moment. “The act by which a child is conceived, ma'am.”

  
  


His answers are, unfortunately, unhelpful.

  
  


“I see,” she says, and manages to look at him finally. He is still looking at the wall, face grave, but at her glance he meets her eyes. She cannot read his expression, and firmly affixes her own gaze back to the wall. “I-” and her hands smooth the skirt of her dress, smooth it again. “The doctor said that there would be evidence if Lady Flora had had such relations. If an examination was done.”

  
  


He tenses beside her, and she cannot look at him and see his disapproval. She can hear it though, when he says, “Yes, ma'am.”

  
  


“Please explain to me _exactly_ what a criminal conversation _is_ ,” she says. And then, as time passes and she senses his struggle, “I would not ask if it were not important.”

  
  


“Ma'am. It-” he blows out a breath. After a moment he starts again, and she can hear how every word is carefully chosen. “When a... No. There is... There is a place on a woman's body. Between her legs. An... entrance.” She nods slightly, although she thinks he does not see. “When a man passes that entrance, outside of marriage, it is considered as you have said. It is that which can lead to a child, ma'am.”

  
  


She takes this, digests this, gives it full consideration. No one has ever spoken to her so boldly, so improperly before. No one else in the world would have told her this.

  
  


“And it can be detected by a doctor?” she hears her own voice ask faintly.

  
  


“Yes,” he says, drawing out the word. “Or, were the lady to become married, her husband-”

  
  


“How?” she says, and somehow manages to keep herself steady, strong.

  
  


There is another long silence, then, cautiously, “When a man passes the entrance,” and he waits a moment as though to check she is following him, “he... breaks... a barrier. The doctor would be able to ascertain that. A... a new husband, ma'am – well, there used to be a tradition to check the sheets, you see. Normally a woman might bleed, when the barrier is broken.”

  
  


“I see.”

  
  


They sit in silence for ten minutes, Victoria's mind unusually still. They never normally sit in silence, but then he has always been very adept at reading her moods. Eventually she rouses herself, stirs from the chair.

  
  


“Thank you for humouring me, Lord M,” she says as she turns to face him. His eyes are serious, looking up at her, and after a moment he rises too, bending over her hand and kissing it.

  
  


“Ma'am.”

  
  


  
  


\----------------------------------

  
  


Time passes, and things both change and stay the same. She is resistant to the idea of being courted, either by a Russian prince or an English one. Both of them seem rather silly to her, and neither would spark her interest even if...

  
  


But the feelings she has for Lord M, those crystallise. Evolve, and become both complex and at the same time incredibly simple. She has never known anyone who has treated her with such respect, such gentleness – who has listened to her and bourne with her and _been_ there for her when she needed him. And sometimes, the way that he looks at her makes her think that he feels it too.

  
  


She must marry, they all insist. She _must_. And she is resistant to the idea, still feeling like she is just beginning to breath away from the stifling air of Kensington, but...

  
  


“ _An English husband might be popular.”_

  
  


And why not? Perhaps there is a chance there, a chance that she might have everything she wants, everything she longs for. Her days are not complete without Lord M beside her, she thinks of him every moment and longs for him every minute he's not beside her. If there is any chance...

  
  


She travels to Brocket Hall.

  
  


He is with the rooks when she finds him, and his voice is gravelly as he tells her about them. Her heart beats thump thump thump in her chest, and she says to herself, _let me be brave_. She speaks, somehow, tells him that she considers him her only possible companion, the only man she could ever trust. Tells him that she has already given him her heart, as he tries to deflect.

  
  


Doesn't let the tears fall.

  
  


She had no expectation of his acceptance, after all. Only hope.

  
  


 


	2. Confessions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I cannot marry,” she says, and there is something in her voice he has never heard before...

Prince Albert arrives, and Lord Melbourne knows that this time the expectations are much more serious. Everyone is watching the queen and he watches too, watches her desperate attempts to escape the web closing in on her, watches Albert callously scorn her again and again with comments said so casually. He winces internally at every one and wishes the boy would pay just a little attention to the consequences, would learn to praise as well as criticise; that he would take some interest in _her_ interests.

 

Her mother and King Leopold stand too close to her, trying to manipulate and mould her. From a distance he can see it suffocating her, can see how much it costs her to stand up to them. But this distance is one that he _has_ to maintain – one that he has brought upon himself. He must withdraw, for her sake as well as his own. She needs a husband. She should be happy.

 

He tells her so, heart and voice almost breaking – tells her that she needs more than just a companion. That she needs a husband to love and honour her. That she should be cherished. He thinks perhaps she has been softening towards Albert, that perhaps all it needs is for him to very firmly withdraw from the field.

 

She takes his words badly that evening, however, becomes restless and anxious.

 

“Will you walk with me, Lord M?” she asks, and all of his resolutions disappear.

 

He nods, and they walk silently together. Along endless corridors, down the portrait gallery, through the South Wing. She is quiet as they walk, thinking deeply, biting at her lip. He observes her from the corner of his eye, and his gut steels itself for her to push once more, to suggest again that they might...

 

After some time they come to her music room and she stops outside it.

 

“I would be happy to listen to you play, ma'am?” he suggests, because perhaps music would ease her mood. She has learned to contain herself in many ways throughout the years, but her feelings always come out in her music – her very soul.

 

“No,” she murmurs, but she enters the room anyway and he follows obediently.

 

Still showing the same restlessness, she paces beside the piano. All he can do is stand nearby and wait. He cannot leave her like this.

 

When she glances up at him as she turns, he thinks for a moment he sees a glimmer of tears in her eyes.

 

“I will not marry,” she says, and he cannot help the sigh that escapes.

 

“Ma'am, you know that-”

 

“I know all the reasons,” she cries passionately. “That it is my duty! But even if I found someone that I could tolerate, someone...” She pauses and turns away from him again, bracing her hands on the piano. “I _cannot_ marry,” she says, and there is something in her voice he has never heard before, something...

 

His heart turns over in his chest, and for a moment he feels dizzy. He remembers a question, a thought from long ago. Wondered over, but dismissed. She is quiet now, still in the same pose, and he stares at her slim form and the arch of her delicate back.

 

“Ma'am,” he says, and the word feels thick and unwieldy. He takes a step forward, two steps, and he wants so much to lay his hand on her shoulder, to turn her, but he does not. Instead he moves to the side, and, breaking all protocol, sits while she still stands. He regards the empty space next to him on the piano stool and pats it gently with one hand. “Will you sit with me, ma'am?”

 

He sees her face raise a little but avoids looking directly at her. Somewhat akin to how he would approach the birds at Brocket Hall, he tips his head to one side and stays very still as she edges round the piano and comes to sit in a rustle of skirts beside him.

 

A glance to the side shows her to be disturbed, a tear track down her cheek that she has not wiped away.

 

“I like to think that we're friends, ma'am,” he says, and hears the hitch in her breathing. He can see her nod out of the corner of his eye. “Might I ask – as a friend – whether your reluctance to consider marriage has any _particular_ reason.”

 

He waits, heart in his mouth, and after a moment she whispers, “Yes.”

 

“I see. Would that reason be... something we have discussed before. In this room, perhaps?”

 

Another moment, then, “Yes.”

 

His eyes slip closed for the briefest second; he breathes very carefully in and out again. “Thank you for your honesty,” he says, and his voice is calm even as the rest of him is in turmoil.

 

She is... not a virgin. His queen, so naive and delicate and pure, has known the touch of another man.

 

After a moment he manages to clear his throat, continue. “You must know, ma'am, that this does not preclude your marrying. The position of husband to the queen is a coveted one, any man might...”

 

“Keep his silence,” she concludes, after a moment.

 

“Yes,” he agrees. “Or, if it was someone that held affection for you, they might...” _Not mind_ , he could not bring himself to say. They might mind all the more, of course. He is sure that Prince Albert, so apparently jealous of her attention, wouldn't take such a thing lying down. In fact, the stupid boy would probably think that...

 

His mind stutters to a halt, as he remembers that she had confessed her love to _him_. Had so obviously come there that day, to Brocket Hall, to ask him to marry her. To be with her always. He recalls, with pain but without effort, the words that she had spoken. ' _You are the only companion I could ever desire. I trust you as no other_.”

 

She had trusted _him_ not to mind.

 

“It would be a risk, though,” she says, and he has to drag his mind back to the conversation and remember what they had been saying. “It could lead to...” Ruin, she doesn't say. Forced abdication; likely being confined somewhere for the rest of her days. Such an accusation would indeed be ruinous for a queen.

 

He nods.

 

“Then I find on reflection,” she says with quiet dignity, “that it is better for me not to marry.”

 

The silence stretches between them. This is not what he wanted for her, nor can he bring himself to be happy at the thought of her remaining unattached.

 

After another moment she lets out a small laugh and says, “I'm sorry to be so much trouble to you. I think I have failed you in every possible way a queen can,” and he has to close his eyes again at the pain.

 

“Not at all, ma'am,” he says, but he knows her too well and loves her too well to leave it at that, so he turns to her. The insecurity shines through in her eyes, and her face is frightened despite the smile she attempts to give him. “I could never think any less of you, ma'am. And you are still the greatest queen this country will ever know.”

 

There is the sheen of tears in her eyes; he sees one tremble, caught, on an eyelash before it falls. His own fingers twitch with the necessity to wipe it away, but he forces himself not to move.

 

“If I may beg a favour ma'am, and ask for something I have no right to?”

 

This time the smile is almost real, and the look in her eyes fond. “Of course.”

 

He shouldn't. It will do him no good, not now or in the future. It will burn in him, and he can never act on it. “Who was it, ma'am?”

 

She looks away, and he instantly feels remorse at having made her feel small again. He opens his mouth to apologize, but she is already speaking.

 

“One of Sir Conroy's friends.”

 

His face creases in a frown – she has generally been well attended at the palace, and she avoids Sir Conroy and anyone associated with him whenever possible. Lord Melbourne had put into place some of his own defences in place with regard to that, to attempt to give her some peace from the man's machinations. He can't imagine that any of Conroy's friends would appeal to her, that she would want-

 

“And when was this?” he asks – not knowing he has spoken the words until he hears them.

 

He has gone too far, he knows it. She stiffens beside him, back straight and hands laced strictly in her lap. He cannot look at her, cannot watch the anger and distress break over her face, cannot watch as she tells him to remember his place.

 

It doesn't come, not through the pulse of five heartbeats, ten.

 

“Oh, I don't know,” she says instead, and her voice is carefully light. “I was... ten I think? Yes, because I remember I saw him again on my eleventh birthday and I was afraid.”

 

He cannot stop himself now, can't stop the force which pulls his eyes to her face, which takes in the false smile and the dark depths of her eyes.

 

“When you were ten,” he echoes, and the gravel of it doesn't sound like his voice, because he had not imagined such a thing, had never thought she... She had been a _child_. “Are you sure that... ma'am, what we spoke of before-”

 

Because she could have misunderstood him; she is very innocent, and he has found ladies can have all sorts of ridiculous notions about what might...

 

“Yes,” she says simply, and her smile trembles and breaks. “You said one could tell because there was bleeding, and I...”

 

His hands are impotent fists, clenched by his side. She had been only a few years older than his son. He can't help but imagine her; small, delicate, _afraid_.

 

He can no longer hear anything outside himself, not the birds outside nor the distant noises of bustle in rooms far away. He cannot hear her. His blood throbs in his ears, and the sound almost blinds him.

 

It is her touch which brings him back, small, delicate fingers which brush over his clenched hand. He looks down at them as abstract things, tiny and pale and so, so fragile.

 

“I have distressed you,” she says softly, and his eyes close in anguish.

 

“ _You've_ distressed _me_?” he manages to say, and barks a laugh which sounds a little like something breaking.

 

He is on his feet, because he cannot bear to sit; he is several paces away because he cannot bear to stay. There is a chair off to one side; he grips the top in both hands and leans over it, feeling cool carved wood bite into his palms at the strength of his hold.

 

“Who was it?” he asks again, because he will _kill_ them, rend them limb from limb and make them _pay._

 

“Lord M, I-”

 

“ _Who was it_?” he asks, except that his voice is a bellow and he is shaking. Reeling. He upturns the chair with a quick, violent motion, feeling satisfaction in the thud of it hitting the wooden floor.

 

She flinches though, sitting alone on the piano bench with her face ashen and pale; recoils at his rage and fury. He goes absolutely still, chest heaving great breaths. His eyes are fixed on her face, drinking in every feature of this tiny, strong, _brave_ woman who has just confessed something terrible to him, and whom he is frightening.

 

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry,” he says numbly, and his feet carry him back again, take him to stand in front of her and then kneel. “I didn't mean to -”

 

He reaches for her hand and presses his lips to it briefly. It seems wrong for it to be so limp and cold, so he cups it between his two as if to warm it. His thumb traces a line across her knuckles, dipping gently into the groves between her fingers. Traces them again, as if in a daze.

 

The touch of her other hand to his head startles him, and his gaze darts up to meet her sad one as her fingers brush tenderly over his hair before pulling away.

 

“So you see,” she says softly, as though nothing else had passed since they'd been talking. “It is quite a hopeless case.” And smiles at him again, every inch his queen.

 

He pulls himself up, sits down beside her like a marionette whose strings have been cut. His hand rubs over his face, and he is attempting to pull himself together when her voice comes again, more quietly.

 

“It was Sir Fitzroy,” she says, then adds, with a quick look at him, “He died in a riding accident some years past.”

 

“Did he,” says Lord Melborne, with an exhalation that's almost punched out of him. “Lucky for him,” he adds under his breath, and the surging anger inside of him is now cheated of a target. It swirls, and he forces it down because she does not deserve to be exposed to it.

 

“Lord M, I hope that you don't, that this doesn't-” She breaks off, seemingly unable to come up with the words she is looking for. He cannot find them for her, not today, not when his heart is breaking inside his chest all over again.

 

“I could _never_ think any less of you, ma'am,” he repeats, and he knows she hears the truth of his words because a tremor goes through her and she ducks her head, the way she does when she's trying not to cry. “I find that I esteem you more and more each day,” he adds, and his voice breaks a little on the words.

 

“Thank you, Lord M.”

 

And they sit there in silence for a long time, until he is recovered enough that she can make a comment and he can attempt a laugh, and then they continue their walk until they go their separate ways.

 

He does not bring up the subject of her marrying Prince Albert again.

 

 


	3. Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They suggest... they suggest that I am not of sound mind. That I am mad like my grandfather. Even Mama...” and here her voice hitches and freezes. “Even she supports them. They say perhaps there is something wrong with me. That there should be a regent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this timeline, the bedchamber crisis never occurred and I'm shifting other events by a few months. Also, yes, I'm making my Victoria slightly more mature than she comes across in the series, because she has a different history in this story.

There comes a time, not so very far in the future after that conversation, that the Radicals and Tories vote against a bill he has proposed. The issue of the bill itself aside, the queen's stubborn determination not to marry has fostered some uneasiness in the country – and that combined with his continued attendance to her, however much he tries to keep it low key, has built resentment against him in Parliament.

 

It is time.

 

He doesn't know how to tell her, knows that no matter how much she has grown as a queen, no matter how well she can stand on her own, she still relies upon him. For understanding, for confidences, and, although he might wish it were otherwise, for emotional stability. Despite his attempt to find her other mentors, other friends, she clings to him with desperate affection. And he has proven to himself time after time that he cannot, however hard he sometimes tries to pull away, deny her that.

 

“There is something I have to tell you,” he says to her one afternoon after they are finished with the dispatches. She is glowing, full of her own cleverness and understanding, and he is so, so proud of her.

 

What will it be like, not seeing her every day? He could attempt to remain her private secretary, of course, but it would invite scandal - no, better to make a clean break. To let her find a new advisor, a new confidant.

 

“Yes, Lord M?”

 

“The time has come,” he begins carefully, “for a new ministry to be formed. A recent vote did not go my way.”

 

She is silent, large eyes watching him. She has been queen long enough, has listened to him speak of politics enough, to understand something of the repercussions of what he is talking about.

 

“Can you not win them back?” she asks, and the vulnerability in her voice makes his chest ache.

 

“I fear not, ma'am.”

 

“But-”

 

He smiles a tight smile. “You knew this day would come,” he reminds her. “That I could not remain the prime minister forever.”

 

“No.” She shakes her head in denial, and he can hear the catch in her voice. “I don't want another prime minister.”

 

She doesn't need reasoning with; she knows the truth. And he can feel his own expression tighten with the knowledge of how things will change, now.

 

“This is the way it has to be, ma'am,” he says, ever so slightly strained.

 

“But so soon...”

 

He can't help a rusty laugh, the raise of an eyebrow. “It has been almost three years, ma'am.”

 

She nods quickly, looks down. Three years in which they have been almost daily in each other's company. In which he has seen her blossom. In which he has loved her, absolutely.

 

“But who will... How...”

 

So young still, and still so bad at masking her expressions, her feelings. Especially with him.

 

“I would suggest you ask Sir Robert Peel to form a new ministry.”

 

“A Tory!” she says, outraged, and his lips twitch in a smile.

 

“Ma'am, at the moment I fear he is the only one who can. And there must be balance – yes he is a Tory, but it will not last forever.”

 

“But what about you?” she asks, and he blinks. This time his smile doesn't quite fit right.

 

“I shall retire to Brocket Hall I think – I have been thinking of doing so for a long time. I can spend time with my rooks.”

 

She tries to smile. It is a valiant effort. “I cannot keep you?” she asks, and he struggles to keep his composure. To protect them both.

 

“No, ma'am.”

 

“But I shall be left all alone.”

 

It isn't an accusation, but he feels it as a knife to the heart all the same.

 

“Not alone, ma'am,” he says after a moment. “You have many companions now, and you shall find new ones.” He tries to smile, and finds he cannot.

 

She doesn't press the issue, though he sees the tears brighten her eyes and the stubbornness of her chin. She has grown so much in the last few years.

 

“You have been... everything I could have ever wished for, Lord M.” The statement isn't qualified with an 'as a prime minister,' and his stomach twists with familiar longing and pain.

 

“Thank you, ma'am. It has been... more than a pleasure to serve you. An honour.”

 

They stand and stare at each other for long moments, her eyes holding his, refusing to let him go. He stays, content to share this time; to gaze upon her while he can. She is so beautiful, so precious to him.

 

“When will you do it?” she asks eventually.

 

“Soon.” There is a slight pause – he has already considered this, of course. Already made subtle overtures to Wellington, to Peel. “The next time we are in session. We shall have to find you a new private secretary, ma'am.”

 

Her eyes jolt to his again; he thinks for a second that perhaps she hadn't thought that far but no, it is just shock at the idea being voiced.

 

“Yes,” she says, and there is a tautness to the way she holds herself now that begs him to discontinue the conversation.

 

“I shall look into it,” he says with a small bow, and she nods and glances away.

 

“No one could ever replace you,” she says very quietly, and he pretends not to hear even as he holds the words close to his heart.

 

\---------------------------------

 

She comes to see him, of course, at Brocket Hall, and his heart glorifies too much to see her there for him to scold her. It is a very hard thing, to be sensible when you are in love.

 

Shown in by the butler, all smiles and 'Surely I can call to see an old friend,' she pretends complete ignorance at the impropriety of her unchaperoned visit. They have been closeted together so many times over the years with only the shield of the relationship of the monarch and her prime minister, and still the talk had been rife. But now there is no excuse, and the jut of her chin says she knows it.

 

They take tea, out in the garden. Spring is turning into the start of a pleasant summer, and he has been torturing himself of late with thoughts of the rides he isn't taking with her – that someone else must be instead.

 

“How are things at the palace?” he asks, a nice neutral starting point for her to wind around to whatever her point is.

 

She wants something, or she wouldn't be here. She has written to him, during his stay here, and he has written back; small things, unimportant. She has asked him to visit her, multiple times, and he has ignored each tentative summons, each request. Lately her letters have been more sparse, and he has almost ceased his replies.

 

A sip of tea, and she tells him about Dash and her ladies – all of the gossip about the two Tories she has been forced to take as her ladies of the bedchamber. Though he can tell from her face that much of her irritation is feigned, and that Lady Beatrice and Lady Mary are, in fact, acceptable to her.

 

“I'm glad,” he says, and she brightens at his approval.

 

She complains a great deal about Sir Robert, and several minutes go by in which he begins to fear that she has come to ask him to become prime minister again, no matter how impossible. But she finishes with a grumbled, “I suppose he may make a reasonable prime minister yet, though of course he could never be as good as you, Lord M,” and he eases again.

 

“Why are you here?” he asks her curiously, once her ready supply of conversation trails off.

 

“Are you not happy to see me?”

 

“Always, ma'am.” But he keeps his eyes on her, questioning, and after a few seconds she starts to fidget.

 

“Perhaps we could go for a walk?”

 

His grounds are beautiful at this time of year, and he shows her the gardens with pride. He doesn't take them near the rookery, though, instead they go through the formal gardens, the ones Caro had taken such pride in. They are wilder than they used to be, but still beautiful at this time of year.

 

She admires them turn after turn as something new is revealed, stopping to smell a flower here, then running ahead a little to reach some new point of interest. He cannot contain his fond smile, bewitched all over again at her delicate form in her light summer dress. His queen. Eventually they reach an arbour at the centre and come to a natural halt. She is still admiring the climbing plants, the hedges, the sculpted beauty, but he interrupts her effusions.

 

“Why are you here, ma'am?”

 

She goes still, a stillness he sees in her rarely. Sometimes he thinks he is the only one privileged to see it, or at least to understand it.

 

“I have come to ask your advice about something,” she says. He runs his eyes over her face; she is serious but calm.

 

Gesturing to the curved bench, he takes a seat beside her. “You may ask me anything, ma'am.”

 

“I know,” she says simply. Takes a deep breath. “As I'm sure you know, there has been some consternation over the fact that I refuse to marry.” Her eyes stay on his, measuring. He nods. “I have had... a great many discussions with Sir Robert, and he has become quite insistent upon the matter – for the stability of the country.”

 

She is here to tell him that she is to be married, after all.

 

Her gaze remains steady. “Obviously, I have no interest in marrying anyone that might be suggested to me. My apparent obstinacy has gained me some... enemies.” And now she looks away, now she does not wish to meet his eye. “They suggest... they suggest that I am not of sound mind. That I am mad like my grandfather. Even Mama...” and here her voice hitches and freezes. “Even she supports them. They say perhaps there is something wrong with me. That there should be a regent.”

 

 _Conroy_. Melbourne should have found a way to banish him from the palace long ago.

 

“I have tried to fight it,” she says steadily, and he gazes at her sadly. His little queen, so strong and determined. So vulnerable, and he has left her alone to the wolves. “I have tried to prove myself. I think Sir Robert does not believe I am mad, but he would also-” she takes a deep breath “-rather not have a woman on the throne, especially one he does not understand and cannot anticipate.”

 

“No,” he agrees.

 

“But he would maintain his support of me, if he thought I would marry.” Her smile is very sad. “Lord M, do you remember a conversation we had once?”

 

“Yes ma'am,” he says hoarsely, because it is seared in his memory.

 

“I cannot marry, Lord M.”

 

“No ma'am,” he agrees, although between being condemned for being mad or for being found an unchaste queen he isn't sure there will be a great deal of difference. Except that he will probably be found guilty of treason, were it the latter. Enough 'witnesses' would come forward to damn them.

 

It is as though his mind is waking up after a long hibernation – it storms down possible avenues of trying to mitigate the damage.

 

“Unless my husband knew, and understood,” she says quietly, and now, too late, he sees the position she has laid out. How neat her plan. It doesn't make her situation any less real though, or less tenuous. In foolish melancholy, he has been avoiding the papers the last few weeks - but he believes every word she says. Believes that his queen is on a knife's edge, with no one to support her position or maintain her interests.

 

He had hoped that things were stable enough at court, that she was established enough, that her rule would continue without problem when he left. But it seems the machinations of others, now that he is not there to root them out and protect her, have tipped things off course.

 

His queen, declared mad? Or worse?

 

“You realise, ma'am,” he says wearily. “That any such person you may have in mind may not be particularly eligible. Either due to birth, or political activity.” Or previous history, he doesn't add, but that would be the least of their problems.

 

Her lips tighten. “I wouldn't care about that.”

 

He huffs a laugh. “You might not, ma'am, but the Privy Council will have some grave objections. I fear that they might force you to abdicate. It would certainly render any heirs that you might have...” he stops, as even the thought of discussing potential children with her is breathtakingly painful.

 

“But,” he continues slowly. “Perhaps it would be possible to find someone of suitable status that could be... persuaded.”

 

“Bribed, you mean?” she tips her head to the side like a bird and considers him gravely. “I do not think I would like such a marriage. I do not wish to be married to someone who would try and control me; I would rather remain free.”

 

 _But if you refuse you will still be caged_ , he doesn't say, because she knows that, knows what would await her as consequence.

 

“I have discussed things with Sir Robert,” she continues. “I have told him that you are the only person that I would consider marrying.”

 

He blinks in astonishment and consternation.

 

“He thinks you are manipulating me, of course,” she says, reading his face accurately. “That this is a way for you to maintain your influence. I told him it wasn't true, but he was bewildered by the very idea that I might have thoughts and inclinations of my own.”

 

“I'd have thought he'd been used to the idea by now, ma'am,” he says glibly, the words rolling off his tongue of their own accord. It has been almost two months, after all. And she isn't one to keep quiet.

 

Her lips quirk. “Indeed.”

 

“But ma'am-”

 

“I asked him if he would rather have a stable queen on the throne with you as her husband, or a country in turmoil with my uncle, King of Hanover, acting as regent.”

 

He stares at her.

 

“I was quite sure he would see my point of view,” she adds after a moment. “And I think he will argue quite successfully for the acceptance of it in parliament.”

 

“Ma'am-”

 

“I realise that isn't the only problem of course, but then no one I marry will ever become king or inherit after I die - and will have to be given a token title at best - so why should it matter whether you are of high enough station? It isn't as though I'm picking a stable boy off the street.”

 

“They will still-”

 

“I believe I may get enough support. I believe my uncle may be hated enough – or at least more so than me. And I believe that, distrust you though they do, even the Tories believe you had a stabilising effect on me.”

 

No one knows, of course, about the stabilising effect she has had on _his_ life.

 

“Sir Robert thinks there is a chance, and that it would quell the... rumours. He isn't happy about it, but...”

 

And oh, she doesn't need him. She has done all of this – found all of this out and overcome it, completely without him.

 

He is speechless.

 

She shifts a little on the bench, and plays with her gloves. “I did all of this without speaking to you first,” she says, voice rapid and guilty, “because I wanted to find out if it was a possibility.”

 

Because she had known that he would have said no, that he wouldn't have thought it was best for her - that he would have tried to find another way. Maybe she'd thought there wasn't one - although if he'd known weeks ago perhaps he could have drummed up support for her or blackmailed her enemies. There would have been no guarantee; he has given up much of his leverage, coming out here.

 

No, the steps she has taken are significant ones, and her points are valid. Doubtless, Parliament _would_ prefer her to the King of Hanover. The Privy Council too, for that matter. And an argument can be put together for a queen marrying someone not of royal station despite the Marriage Act – they can even argue _for_ it, by claiming it maintains her as the highest rank despite being a woman, that in this case it _shouldn't_ be a marriage of political equals, in order to keep her interests at the fore.

 

They could argue for so many things, but what it will come down to is whether his political opponents are too worried that this will make Lord Melbourne 'king' - that he will be pulling all the strings.

 

“But of course that was wrong of me; you must be assured that it did not go beyond Sir Robert, and I swore him to secrecy.”

 

Much difference that will have made.

 

She is growing uncomfortable with how long it has been since he has spoken, and stirs again. “It was wrong of me because... we spoke here once before, and you said... you said that you would remain faithful to your wife.” Her eyes meet his, and they are determined. “And I would never wish for you to feel compelled to take any action you did not wish to. And I understand if there are... _other_ reasons you might not wish to. If you do not want...” And here she has to stop and swallow, and he wonders if she can see the torment on his face. Then she finishes, oh so bravely, “Me.”

 

“Ma'am,” he says, and his voice is rusty, hollow. There is a long pause. “I-” He has to stop for a moment, try to organise his thoughts. “I don't think... That is to say-”

 

She is watching his face carefully. It is different to that last time she visited, when he broke both their hearts. Then, there had been hope amongst the nerves and gravity of her address. Now there is only wistful longing, and sadness.

 

His mind treads old paths – all the reasons why he told her before that this could not be. She would be brought down by any association with him, he fears; _surely_ there must be another way?

 

And yet...

 

“Ma'am,” he starts again, troubled, because he doesn't know what to say or how. He tried for so long to do the _right_ thing, and now she stands alone at the cusp of ruin. The idea that this could be what saves her is absurd, and it feels as though there is a tight band across his chest restricting his breathing. “I don't-”

 

His next hesitation is too much - she doesn't wait to hear him finish, drawing back into the corner of the bench with a hasty, “No, please-”

 

Her face is blank, fallen into the careful mask he has seen her wear only once before.

 

His mouth opens again, to reassure her, to correct her misapprehension, but she interrupts again. “I do understand,” she says, the words tumbling forth. “And you must forgive me. I knew that you – but I had to try. I had to ask.”

 

His breath rasps in time with hers, and there is a visceral ache in his chest.

 

“But I am very sorry,” she carries on. “I did not mean to make things awkward for you. I just wanted to see you, one last time.” Her voice almost wavers, and he feels tears threaten at the corners of his eyes. “And to thank you, once again. You have been so...” She breaks off for a moment, then, “I shall never forget,” and her eyes are so earnest they shine.

 

“Please, let me finish, ma'am,” he manages, and reaches over the distance between them to rest his fingers on her gloved hand. After a moment, she slowly turns it and he strokes a lingering circle onto her palm. “You know that I would do anything for you – to see you happy. No, wait,” he says as she opens her mouth to interrupt, and she subsides.

 

“I thought,” he says slowly, “the last time we spoke here, that the right thing for you, for the country, would be for you to marry someone suitable. A young prince,” and he smiles at her, a pained smile. “And I am… grieved, that you will not have that life. Marriage to an equal, someone your own age.” He sees her lips part again, can already hear her saying that she doesn’t care about that; that he’s not old. “And when I came to understand that that wasn’t possible for you I… I thought that you would do a fine job of reigning alone, ma’am. Even if it would be lonely.” He holds her eyes. “I never meant for this to happen,” he says, slightly hoarsely. “I should have predicted it, should have served you better. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

 

She shakes her head, and he can see the threat of tears. “You have nothing to apologise for,” she says, and he presses her hand tenderly.

 

“Perhaps I should have been more selfish from the start,” he confesses wryly. “Or perhaps it is my selfishness which has brought us here.”

 

Because if Prince Albert could have truly loved her, if he had treated her a little more tenderly and she had come to trust him, maybe…

 

“I don't deserve you,” he says, slightly brokenly. “I never have, you know.” And he blinks hard to keep the tears at bay. “You are _everything_ to me. I fear that the course you have set will not be smooth sailing, ma’am. But I am beside you, every step of the way.”

 

Her eyes search his, desperate to confirm his meaning. “You are?” she asks, voice tremulous.

 

He has to swallow back his emotion before he can speak, can feel a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Yes, ma’am. Always,” he adds.

 

“Even though,” and she falters, suddenly unsure. “Even though I am not – even though I told you...”

 

He presses his fingers into her palm for a moment, and wonders if it is possible he can feel her heart beating just through that touch.

 

“You have never told me anything which would make me forsake you, ma'am. Only things which would make anyone cherish you more closely.”

 

“Even as a husband?” she asks, hushed.

 

He has to pause, has to come to terms again with a reality where she is asking him such a thing and he can allow himself to think of it being realised.

 

Voice hoarse, he says, “Any man who knows your courage and kindness, ma'am, could not fail to delight in you as a wife.”

 

“Then,” and she takes a breath, “I wish to ask you something, Lord M.”

 

“Anything, ma’am.”

 

“I have… We have known each other for many years. You have been my closest friend, my most trusted advisor.” He smiles at her gently, because his queen is going to propose to him properly even though he’s already said yes. “I have never known love,” and she stumbles a little over the word, “like this. I find that I want to have it always. Dear Lord M, will you do me the honour... that is, will you - will you marry me?”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” he says simply, and lets the truth of it fill his face. Her own expression, still so wary until now, alters into a wide smile that feels like the sun sweeping over him. He can’t help but smile back, so fond of her, so proud. So utterly and irreversibly in love with his precious queen.

 

His hand hasn’t moved from hers, but now he moves to take her delicate fingers in both of his hands, to gently tug the glove from her fingers, one by one, He is close enough to hear each of her breaths and feel them resonate in his own breast. The glove safely tucked in one hand, he slowly brings her hand up to touch his lips against her knuckles, feeling the hitch in her breathing as his exhale ghosts over her skin.

 

“Lord M,” she whispers.

 

Her skin is warm under his lips, and he feels the faintest twitch in her fingers as he doesn’t immediately pull away. Even when he does, it is only a few inches, and he looks up into her lovely face as he allows his thumb to stroke the side of her hand.

 

The grin has faded from her face as she stares at him, breath stolen. But then it comes again, and she tilts her head and laughs with happiness.

 

He has done this. He has this power.

 

“I shall endeavour to make you happy, ma’am,” he says.

 

“Dear Lord M.” She reaches out and cups his face in her other hand. “You always make me happy.”

 

 


	4. Metaphors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I find I rather like being married to you, Lord M,” she says a little flippantly.
> 
> “Do you, ma’am? I’m not sure a few hours are sufficient to form a judgement.”

The entire day – no, the entire month – has passed in a surreal blur. Their engagement was a period of intense frustration - of never being alone with Lord Melbourne for fear of stoking the rumours that she might be marrying him because she was with child, and of endless politicking and arguments and having to bite her tongue and smile sweetly time after time.

 

It is done. They are married.

 

The Duke of Cumberland has gone back to Hanover, apparently unwilling to come to the wedding. Her mother is endlessly disappointed and in distress, and Victoria plans to tell her in the morning that she and Sir John are no longer welcome in the palace. She has imagined the conversation a hundred times over in the last few years - it is one very happy effect of her marriage.

 

Her marriage.

 

She glances down at the ring on her finger as Skerrett carefully removes her hair from its twists and plaits. It doesn’t feel real. She should be happy – this is exactly the future she had wished for – but she isn’t.

 

There had been a party that evening, but somehow it had felt like any other party. She had spoken all of the required phrases, smiled all of the required smiles. Feeling slightly hollow all the while. Only her dances with Lord M had been bright flashes in the evening, the feel of his hand gently flexing on her back and the warm comfort of his smile had prompted genuine feeling from her in return. But they were all too brief, and then she was pulled this way and that by people demanding her attention again. And they have to be oh-so-careful to balance everyone at the moment, to keep them happy. She doesn’t need Lord M to tell her that, she knows it from the conversations she’s had with Sir Robert. From the reaction of the Privy Council.

 

“Ma’am?”

 

She glances up into the mirror and finds Skerrett waiting expectantly. Her hair is loose over her shoulders, falling long and thick to her waist. She brings her fingers up to catch at the dark strands for a moment, wondering how her husband will like it.

 

“Thank you Skerrett.”

 

Her maid bobs her head, hearing the dismissal, and leaves Victoria to her thoughts.

 

“Married,” she says aloud after a moment, just to hear the word again. Then shakes her head and laughs at herself a little, because while it may not feel real yet she knows that it is. That no one can take this away from her now.

 

Getting to her feet, she pauses indecisively for a moment before moving to the bed. She considers it for a moment. Sits. Stands again. Paces.

 

The knock on the door comes just as she is turning to cross the room again, and she whirls, heart in throat. A moment passes, two, and then she realises that he is waiting for permission.

 

“Come in,” she says, and her voice sounds like a stranger's.

 

The door cracks open, then swings smoothly until he is standing framed in the doorway. She turns to stand square to him, automatically crossing her arms across her chest.

 

“Lord M,” she says, and suddenly feels too vulnerable to manage a smile.

 

She has never seen him look so… she cannot find the word. Despite catching him off guard at Devon House and Brocket Hall, her imagination has – despite its best efforts – never been able to conjure up the image which stands before her, barefoot and unguarded.

 

He just looks at her for a long moment, eyes on her face, and the softness of his expression makes her heart start to beat faster.

 

“May I come in, ma’am?”

 

He smiles at her then, a warm and easy smile.

 

“Yes,” she says. “Yes, of course,” and takes two steps closer as he closes the door behind him. He makes a show of looking around, examining her chamber, and she takes another few steps until she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to.

 

She does. Her fingertips graze over the ruffle at the neck of his nightshirt then down, and she stares hard at them as they trace a path from the centre of his chest up to one shoulder. When she dares an inquisitive look at his face, the gentleness of his smile is reflected in his eyes.

 

“Ma’am,” he says again, with the slightest inflection of – what? Curiosity, humour? His hand comes up to gently rest over hers where it touches him, and his thumb cups the side of her hand and caresses it.

 

“None of it feels real,” she whispers, and he nods.

 

“I know, ma’am.”

 

He exerts gentle pressure on her hand, bringing it up to his mouth. His lips brush over her knuckles, then he turns it to press a careful kiss to the centre of her palm. Her breath catches, and she cannot help but stare at their two connected hands. The echo of his lips on her palm remains even after he draws away.

 

“I find I rather like being married to you, Lord M,” she says a little flippantly.

 

“Do you, ma’am? I’m not sure a few hours are sufficient to form a judgement.”

 

He presses another kiss to her palm, then brings her hand up to lay alongside his cheek. Her fingers twitch, feeling the slight scratch of stubble against the base of her hand where it lays against his jaw. She curls them experimentally, feeling the dips of the creases alongside his eyes, the bump of his cheekbone, the slightest changes in texture that her eyes cannot see. He watches her, dark eyes full of feeling, and she smooths her hand up so that her fingers slide just into his hair. He leans into her touch a little, and her eyes drop involuntarily to his lips.

 

“May I kiss the bride?” he murmurs, and she doesn’t answer him but moves forward herself, reaching up to press her lips carefully against his. When she pulls away, his eyes run over her face as though trying to capture the memory of her.

 

“Do you like being married to me?” she asks, and though her intent is to be teasing it comes out disarmingly honest.

 

His thumb nudges under her chin, tipping her face up a fraction. “You know I do,” he says roughly, then covers her lips with his own. The kiss lasts no longer than hers did, a brief caress, then he pulls back again to gaze at her from mere inches away.

 

Her other hand has come up to rest against his chest; she thinks she can feel his heart beating even through the fabric. She glances down, abruptly unable to meet his eyes.  

 

“Because I know you felt you had no choice,” she says quickly.

 

It is something they haven’t spoken of since that day at Brocket Hall, providing at all times a united front that this marriage has been unrelated to the threat to her rule. And at the time she had thought he might refuse her, that he  _would_  refuse her. In the weeks since, however, she has mulled over the fact that of course his sense of duty would not allow him to see her fall if he could act to save her. Of course he had agreed to marry her. She had, partially unwittingly, manipulated him into perhaps the only position in which he  _would_  agree to marry her. The thought has burned in her ever since, yet she has had no opportunity alone with him to voice it.

 

And, she can admit to herself most privately, she fears to know his answer.

 

“Ma’am,” he says softly, but now that she has spoken the words she is in no mood to be placated.

 

She withdraws her hands from his face, his chest, her own eyes stubbornly fixed on the floor. She takes a quick breath.

 

“I do appreciate what you have done for me, Lord M. And, as you see, I am selfish enough to have married you regardless of your own inclinations.” Her eyes dart up to meet his now, unable to stay away. She cannot read his expression so continues, her words speeding up. “I do not require – you do not have to lie to me, Lord M.”

 

His eyes are serious now. “I have never lied to you, ma’am.” After a moment, he reaches out to catch her hand in his. “I will never lie to you.”

 

She believes him – of course she does – but she is unsure of what he is saying. She wants so much to think that perhaps he-

 

“I should have told you,” he continues. He moves a step closer, and his fingers move to carefully brush back her hair from her face. Her eyes search his. “Should have made it clearer. Please don’t ever doubt that I care for you, ma’am. That I love you-“ his voice turns slightly hoarse “- more than I ever thought possible. Perhaps,” he says after a moment, even as her heart is swelling fit to burst, “you had to give me no choice in order for me to accept the gift of what I most wanted – but never doubt that I wanted it. More than anything. I am so happy-“ and again his voice is uneven “-to be your husband, ma’am. More than you could ever know.”

 

“ _Oh,_ ” she breathes, further speech deserting her in a rush of emotion. His expression is achingly tender as he brings her in to hold her against him, arms coming around her to keep her close.

 

“I love you, Victoria,” he murmurs quietly in her ear, tucking her face into his neck, and her breath shudders in a combination of ecstasy and fear. She can feel the warmth of his body against her – previously she has only been held before by her mother and Lehzen, and this is quite,  _quite_  different. Wonderful and terrifying all at once.

 

It takes a few moments for her to find her voice.

 

“We are very glad to hear it,” she manages, and feels a huff of laughter against the top of her head.

 

“I always serve at the pleasure of the Queen, ma’am,” he says wryly, and there is pleased amusement in his face as he pulls back.

 

Out of the close hold, she feels somehow exposed, even though nothing has changed since a moment before. Conscious though she is of her nightgown, it has not grown more transparent in the last few minutes and it quite properly covers her from neck to ankle. It is as though his body has left an impression on hers, as though there is an empty outline where he was a moment before and he can see straight through her clothing there.

 

His arms have loosened as he pulled back; one hand rests lightly on her shoulder and the other lies against the curve of her ribs, just above her waist. She is incredibly conscious of each of his fingers, of every shift and movement they make and the jolts of sensation that they cause.

 

“Lord M,” she says after a moment, and wets her bottom lip. His eyes shift to follow the motion, and she  _aches_ , suddenly, for more of his touch, more of his attention. The feeling is unexpectedly alarming.

 

She pulls away, his hands slowly falling from her, and crosses her arms over her chest once more.

 

“I have been given a great many lectures on what is to occur tonight,” she says with a slight laugh, afraid to meet his eyes. “I rather think many of them would scare a seasoned general.”

 

“And who were these talks with, ma’am?” A quick glance shows a slight quirking of his eyebrow; he is amused.

 

“Mama,” she says. “Lehzen. Some of my ladies. And Mama again.”

 

She senses him nod. “Ah,” he says gravely. “I think perhaps now I see the problem.”

 

“I rather thought,” she says in a rush, then has to force herself to continue, “that it shouldn’t be like that. Like… I mean, as they describe. As… Otherwise why does anyone get married?”

 

She raises her eyeline to his chin, which is high enough for her to see his lips twitch in a smile. “God’s will and procreation aside,” she adds, and he suppresses his smile with seeming difficultly. She frowns and reaches to lightly swat at his chest, then leaves her hand there for a second before resuming her previous pose. “It all seems like a ridiculous business.”

 

He hesitates. “It can sometimes be ridiculous, I suppose, ma’am. It helps to know your partner, and care about them. It can be… very beautiful.” His voice deepens, and her eyes flash up to find him looking at her intently.

 

“Beautiful?” she echoes, slightly breathless.

 

“Yes. Did none of your ‘advisors’ mention that?”

 

She shakes her head. Then, “Actually, Lady Portman said… she said...”

 

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Good old Emma, saving the day. I hope that she, at least, gave you better council, ma’am?”

 

She shifts a little uncomfortably. “She perhaps indicated that it needn’t be… entirely unpleasant.”

 

For a moment, she thinks he will laugh, but then his gaze becomes measuring, considerate. “No, I would hope not,” he says, and reaches out his hand to her. After a seconds hesitation, she fits her small hand in his and he leads her in the direction of the bed.

 

She goes along, uncertain but willing, and once they stand beside it he gestures for her to sit and then sits next to her. He does not let go of her hand, and they are sitting so close that their sides are almost touching. Victoria is incredibly aware that her gown is tugged up so that the bottoms of her calves are exposed to warm air. It feels... daring, somehow, to know that he could look down and see her bare legs.

 

“I believe,” he says slowly, “that a great many things might be said to a bride, in order to prepare her for marriage.” He pauses, looks at her for a moment. “And perhaps in some marriages they are true, ma’am. Maybe it is better to be prepared for the worst, so that one will not be surprised or disappointed.”

 

“I find-“ She stops, her voice wavering a little. “The things that might be said – I think they  _are_  true. Because…” She trails off again, and he waits patiently until she says, “Lord M, I find that I am a little afraid.”

 

“I know,” he says quietly, and gently squeezes her hand. “That is natural for anyone, coming to an unknown situation.” They sit in silence for a moment, then, “Do you remember, ma’am, when you first started riding at the palace?”

 

Her eyes scan his, puzzled. “Yes,” she says.

 

“You were fairly new to the activity, and I remember both the horses and the height intimidated you a little. But you rose to the challenge – I remember you told me that you refused to let a horse get the better of a queen.” There is momentary laughter in his voice, and she smiles tremulously.

 

“I remember.”

 

“But that first time here, ma’am – that was very difficult. I remember you said to me before we went out that you’d had a bad fall as a child, which had scared you very much. That your mother had insisted you not try again, because she was afraid for your safety. That, since then, you’d always assumed if you tried again you would fall, and it would hurt.”

 

His voice is very gentle, and his hand warm and careful as it holds hers. A tear slips down her cheek, leaving a cool track behind it.

 

“I remember,” she says again, and this time her voice is choked with other things.

 

“You were so incredibly brave, ma’am, getting on that horse, expecting all the while that it would immediately throw you off. You tried to laugh, to tell me that you knew it was ridiculous, but I could see that you really thought that it would.”

 

“Yes,” she whispers.

 

“I never told you, ma’am, but I picked the gentlest horse in the stables that day. One which I had tried myself; one which the stable master told me he used to take his children out on. It would not have thrown you even if you had reached down and tried to wrench its ears off.”

 

If her laugh is a little watery, it is still a laugh, and after a moment she manages to summon an expression of outrage and scowl at him.

 

“You had me believing I was able to sit upon a fearsome beast, Lord M, and now you tell me that he was as tame as Dash? And I was so proud, too!”

 

“You were right to be proud, ma’am” His voice is fond, and the corner of her mouth quirks in a smile. “You rode him splendidly.”

 

“Now you’re humouring me,” she grumbles, but can’t help but smile again. After a moment she says, “Lady Portman said it could feel good.”

 

Actually, what Emma had said was ‘ _The only thing you should listen to from Lady Beatrice is that you should let him do all the hard work -  he should know what he’s about. He’ll take care of you, and, barring some initial discomfort, make everything feel good. If he doesn’t, you send him to me and I’ll blister his ears._ ’

 

“Yes,” he says simply, and squeezes her hand. “It can feel good.”

 

She darts her eyes to him, away again. “What if I am not – what if I do not make a good wife?” she asks bravely, though she does not feel brave.

 

“I do not think that is anything you should ever have to be concerned about, ma’am.”

 

“But what if I’m not?”

 

He considers her for a long moment and she searches his eyes desperately, unable to say how much of a worry this is for her.

 

“You know I… I would have been happy to serve as your companion, ma’am.” He waits for her nod. “I have told you before how much you have come to mean to me-“ he brings his other hand to stroke hers where he hold it between them “-and how you have brought meaning and brightness to my life again. Seeing you every day, ma’am, is one of the delights of my existence.” His voice is hoarse with emotion, and she feels tears spring to her eyes. “As your husband, I shall be able to do that always, to be with you every day; to spend time at your side. To talk with you, touch you, hold you. It is… more than I could ever have wished for.”

 

His eyes hold hers, and she hears further things that he has left unsaid. She cannot leave it, however, feels some force inside her compelling her to speak.

 

“But that is not all that passes between a husband and wife, Lord M.”

 

“No,” he replies. “It is enough to make me very happy, however.” And he smiles at her again, so very tenderly. “My point is that you cannot help but be a good wife to me, ma’am, because you are yourself.”

 

Another tear falls, and this time he reaches up to brush it gently away with the backs of his fingers.

 

She nods shakily. “I think,” she says, “that I do not need more than a few hours to know that I shall like being married to you, Lord M. That is all that is needed.”

 

“I didn’t need more than a few minutes,” he says with a wry smile, and then he leans in to kiss her again.

 

\-----------------------

 

The End (No, really. Maybe)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve completely invented the riding and being scared because of a childhood fall part. For, you know, plot.
> 
> Also, this chapter (and anything with Lord M in it generally) was brought to you by the word 'gentle.'


End file.
